Blood On Her Feet
by Crookykanks
Summary: Dorothy felt her head begin to spin. What rebellion were they talking about? Why did the Wizard need saving? He wasn’t exactly the Wizard she had once pictured, but surely he had no reason to be afraid of the cowering Witch before her. Probably more K.


Dorothy looked around in fear at the jeering crowd below. All dressed in green and laughing viciously at her, the Ozians were much more terrifying than she'd ever imagined they could be. But no, they weren't laughing at her. Well, not directly at her anyway, but at the woman beside her, swathed in tattered black cloth and kneeling pitifully. Dorothy felt the pity of her age swell inside of her, compiling against the cry of the onlookers. The woman's shoulders were shaking and she seemed to be on the very verge of tears. Where were Dorothy's friends when she really needed them? Why was she alone on this wooden platform with this poor wretch? What were those leering faces chanting at her? And why was she holding an axe?

"Wickedness will be punished today!"

"Get her!"

"_Kill the Witch!"_

Dorothy took another swift glance at the woman beside her and for the first time noticed her hands tied behind her back. Rough rope tightly binding bony emerald wrists. It took all of Dorothy's energy not to scream, although she could not help but jump at the sight. It was then that the Witch, turned her head slightly and her eyes met Dorothy's. Not the same eyes that had vowed to obtain those slippers or sworn vengeance for her sister's death, but solemn eyes full of grief and longing. Human eyes. _Just get it over with_, they pleaded,_ just kill me now_. Dorothy gaped in shock. What would cause such a transformation in a wicked witch?

"End the lies!"

"Save us from the wicked!"

"End the rebellion!"

"Save the Wizard!"

Dorothy felt her head begin to spin. What rebellion were they talking about? Why did the Wizard need saving? He wasn't exactly the Wizard she had once pictured, but surely he had no reason to be afraid of the cowering Witch before her. She wasn't exactly the Wicked Witch Dorothy had pictured either. Dorothy looked down at the Witch again, but was only met with the back of her bowed head. Her dress in tatters and hair in disarray, the Witch looked more like a prisoner than a threat. Like a villain who had caused a stir long ago only to fall into the memory of the public, losing every shred of fought-for dignity along the way.

A rousing cry arose from the mob below, and all heads looked up as one. Dorothy, too, looked around, following the thousands of glazed eyes before her; and above her, waving diplomatically to all those below, a great beam of pleasure painted on his face, stood the Wizard himself. Dorothy had a sudden conflict. The wizard was known for his greatness, and the Witch for her deceit. Was all this simply a trick? A test of her will against the wickedness of the Western Witch? Dorothy once again looked at the trembling heap at her feet.

No. No, it simply wasn't possible. If this was a test, surely the Witch would be defending herself in some way. Trying to save her own lurid skin. Instead, she just studied the wood below her. Dorothy had no way to know if the Witch was actually crying, or if she actually _could_ cry, but she imagined the tear stained face regardless. What a sight! To see a witch cry would surely melt the hardest of hearts. Perhaps their tears held healing powers. Perhaps they were poisonous. There simply had to be something magical about them, as impossible as the very idea of them was.

"My fellow Ozians!" The Wizard boomed from above, "today shall henceforth be a day of celebration, for all of Oz and the surrounding regions. For today, the wickedness that has pervaded this land for so long shall finally be put to rest. Yes, this being born of deceit and lies will live no more, and all the evil of Oz shall let us rest in peace at last!" The people below cheered a raging cry, and Dorothy found the sound to be unbearable. The very monkeys of the Witch, with their shrill cries and disfigured forms, had frightened her less. But those were monkeys. These were people. Here was the gate keeper who had let them in before, the maid who had fixed her hair, the tinsmith who had oiled the tin man, the woman who had groomed the Lion. People she had known. Real people in such a rage, it was more terrifying than the most hideous beasts of any nightmare. And here was the Witch, suddenly more real, more human than them all.

"Let the wickedness be punished," thundered the Wizard, "let the evil be gone for good!"

And to her horror, Dorothy felt the axe in her hands lift into the air slowly, though surely she herself was not lifting it. Rising of its own accord, the axe wobbled uncertainly until it reached a point directly over the Witch's neck. Dorothy failed to muffle a shriek.

"Could you move my hair and collar, my pretty?" whispered a harsh voice. Dorothy gasped, "the dress took quite a while to make and I've already promised it to another. The hair I had planned to donate to those poor ill children in the Glikkus: the ones who have lost their hair during their sickness." Stricken as she was, Dorothy did not have the presence of mind even to honor this tiny request as the axe swept down without her control and ruby red stained her matching shoes.

Dorothy awoke with a cry from her nightmare. Whipping her head around it took her a bit to remember where she was. Home. Kansas. Away from Oz. Shaking, Dorothy wrapped her blanket around her shoulders. She suddenly realized she was drenched and freezing in the night air. She sighed loudly. Would the Witch never leave her in peace? Even dead in another world, the green monstrosity continued to haunt her in sleep. Dorothy reasoned that she wasn't a coward, as she knew of nothing that she really feared in these dreams, but they still bothered her and prevented her from getting the sleep necessary to complete her chores on the farm and at school. Rubbing at her eyes, Dorothy barely registered that she was once again up before the sun. It hardly mattered. There was no way she could go back to sleep now with that image in her mind.

Out of habit, Dorothy slid silently out of her bed and lifted the bed skirt. A glint of red assured her that the slippers were still in their rightful place. The one thing that reminded her that her experience had not been a dream. Dorothy could only guess that a piece of her self had stayed behind in Kansas, or that there was some kink in the time workings and she had only been gone for a short while here. In any case, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry hadn't noticed her disappearance and continued to insist that her adventure had all been a dream. In some ways, the presence of the slippers was comforting. For one thing, it proved that she wasn't completely insane for having dreamed up an entire world and lived in it for several days. Also, she had made true friends, she had been proclaimed a heroine, she had helped people achieve their hearts' desires and had uncovered a fraud who was running a country. These memories never failed to brighten her day, even the day Ms. Gulch, as much a wicked witch as ever, had chased her and Toto off her property with an iron rake. Dorothy had wished hard for a bucket of ice cold water right then, just in case.

But that was the other half of those slippers. They also meant that she had actually, however inadvertently, killed two women, and stolen their property: a broom from one and some enchanted shoes from the other. Did that make her a criminal? A thief? A murderess? It couldn't, could it? Dorothy had never meant to harm anyone, never in her life had she _truly_ wished someone dead, not even old Ms. Gulch. But, then hadn't the tin man said that they would have to kill the Western Witch to get the broom? Hadn't she then taken the property of both as her own? Hadn't she celebrated in the festivities that followed each death? Was it inherently wrong to celebrate death, even the death of one so horrible? Dorothy almost felt that it must be, as these dreams kept reminding her. She hadn't really known either Witch. What if they weren't so wicked at all? Dorothy had once caught Ms. Gulch on the public line in the general store. It sounded almost as though she had been setting up a date. Dorothy had been younger then and hadn't really understood what Ms. Gulch had meant when she said, "Yes, I'm free on Thursday,", "No, I haven't seen that film yet," and "Yes, six sounds fine." Dorothy idly wondered what kind of man would take Ms. Gulch on a date to the movies anyway. Probably a wealthy one looking to add to his fortunes. As Ms. Gulch was still unmarried, Dorothy could only assume that something had gone wrong.

Sighing, Dorothy turned and leaned back against the edge of her bed, sitting down on the sturdy wooden floor. She could never quite figure out what had happened to her house. When she had woken up, the house had been largely intact, though a few rooms seemed to be 'missing' from the south side. Dorothy could only assume she had been carried off in her own bedroom (one of the missing rooms) and that her part of the house had simply been pulled apart from the rest. Auntie Em and Uncle Henry insisted the area was destroyed and then swept away by the wind. Dorothy closed her eyes and let her head hang back onto the bed. She immediately regretted this however, as her mind was filled with the sorrowful eyes of the Wicked Witch, staring unblinking at her from a severed head. Why would the Witch continue to torment her? Had she not been so frightened, she would have just asked to borrow the broom. Not that the Witch would have given it to her. That would have been like Dorothy giving up the slippers, or maybe even Toto. Dorothy shook her head. No. None of this was her fault.

But the Witch was dead, and dead by Dorothy's hand nonetheless.

She and her sister both.

Dorothy looked up at the ceiling and tried to picture the Witch of the East. Would she be green like her sister? Was she the elder or the younger? Did she wear all black, or bright flowery dresses like the munchkins she ruled over and Glinda of the North? And what had her name been? Did Wicked Witches have names? Glinda did obviously, but she was a good witch, and therefore defied much of the folklore concerning witches. Perhaps her name was an exception to the rule as well. But if the two Wicked Witches were sisters, then surely they had a mother and father. Perhaps they had been twins. Dorothy's head was beginning to spin again.

She stood up, swaying gently as she fought for her morning balance. She yawned loudly and proceeded to walk over to her wardrobe. Today was Sunday and Auntie Em had just finished the most adorable white dress for her. Its laces and frills reached to both her elbows and knees. And she had also received little white stockings with embroidered patterns. As she pulled down the dress, Dorothy glanced over at her bed. What would be the harm? The slippers would look nice with her new snow white attire. Besides, her feet always got tired in church and those shoes seemed to be softer than most. Her feet almost never hurt within them, even when she had been walking for hours. Setting her dress down on the bed, Dorothy pulled on her stockings and reached under her bed for the shoes. They glinted and glared at her in their blood red hue. She fought a wince and tried hard to smile. They weren't made of blood, just rubies. And they would've looked horrible with the Witch's black dress anyway. Let Auntie Em ask where she got them, Let Hunk and Hickory pester her about the circles under her eyes. Today, Dorothy would imagine herself to be not the heroine, but the Witch in all her glory, ruling with a ruby shoe.

Dorothy laughed. How could she not? The Witch standing atop the Emerald city showing off her footwear and clutching that old broom was surely a comical sight. Maybe that was how the Witch would prefer to be remembered, as comical and human. Perhaps the fear she had instilled in Dorothy was not what she wanted there. They _had_ been her sister's shoes after all. It was only human to want them back, to want a piece of her sister with her. If Toto had been taken to the pound, Dorothy would probably have asked for his collar. Oh well, it didn't matter now. Perhaps the sisters were together, laughing over tea at a little girl with her brown hair in braids parading a garish pair of bright red shoes to her Sunday classes. Dorothy closed her eyes again and saw them laughing. Yes, that was much better. Feeling refreshed, Dorothy finished dressing and hurried into the hall for breakfast, completely forgetting the time. Maybe, just maybe, the Witch would let her rest in peace eventually. After all, she wasn't afraid of a Witch.


End file.
